Novel Chapter
"But..."
Douglas's eyes gleamed with the feverish light of a scholar who has just discovered an entirely new subject.
"You, on the other hand, are quite fascinating."
A jolt of dread shot through Valerius.
He felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the night wind, but came entirely from Douglas's gaze.
It wasn't the look of a wizard sizing up an enemy—it was the gaze of an anatomist appraising a perfect specimen, or perhaps a collector admiring a rare treasure.
He could almost hear the questions forming behind those eyes.
Which acupoint, if pierced with a silver needle, could temporarily sever a vampire's bond with the blood curse?
Was his heart's structure truly as the legends described?
This wizard wanted to dissect him.
Just as he had done to his cousin.
Terror, cold as iron pincers, clamped around Valerius's heart—a heart that had not beaten in centuries.
He did not hesitate.
No threats. No bravado. Not a wasted word.
With a violent shake of his black cloak, his tall frame exploded beneath the fabric.
Pop—
A muffled sound, like a giant beehive being pierced.
His body burst apart—not into gore, but into a cloud of hundreds of black bats.
They shrieked, a living storm of ink, scattering in all directions toward the dense, dark forest.
"Careful!"
Lupin darted in front of Douglas, wand raised in a protective stance.
Marco let out a roar, muscles tensing, ready to meet the oncoming storm.
But Douglas only flicked his wrist with lazy elegance, as if brushing dust from his sleeve.
"Binding Rope—Peach Bind!"
Swish! Swish!
Two golden cords of light shot from his wand like living serpents, wrapping themselves with uncanny precision around the pig-faced brute and the panicked witch.
Neither managed a single syllable before being bound tight and slammed to the ground.
Meanwhile, the swarm of bats that was Valerius vanished into the forest without a backward glance—no hesitation, no sentiment.
"Watch these two," Douglas ordered, his eyes never leaving the darkness where the bats had disappeared, as if they could pierce through the tangled woods.
The next instant, he tapped the ground lightly with his toe, his entire form gliding away like a weightless shadow.
His steps were swift and silent, not a whisper on the rugged earth.
He reached a towering oak at the forest's edge, planted his foot on the thick trunk, and launched himself skyward.
In midair, his body began to transform.
His long limbs stretched and folded; his clothes melted into his skin, morphing into flawless white feathers.
His face elongated, reshaping into a sharp, elegant beak.
Kree—!
A clear, soaring cry split the night sky—piercing the clouds, ringing with ancient, noble power.
Douglas's form stretched, lengthened, transformed.
His arms unfurled into snowy wings, his body growing long and graceful.
In a heartbeat, the wizard was gone—replaced by a massive, snow-white crane.
With a single sweep of his wings, he stirred a gentle breeze and soared effortlessly into the sky, pursuing the direction in which the bats had fled.
He was the very picture of elegance—yet radiated a chilling, predatory intent.
Bathed in moonlight, the white crane's silhouette was almost holy, otherworldly.
A silent angel, hunting a horde of demons fleeing toward their doom.
Deep in the forest, Valerius's scattered consciousness was slowly gathering itself again.
Most of the bats fled together—he needed to find a safe place to reconstitute his form.
His mind was a tangle of relief at having escaped, and a gnawing humiliation.
That Holmes was even more terrifying than the rumors.
Still, he didn't believe the man could catch him.
This ancient Apennine forest was his domain.
The crowns of the trees overlapped, blocking out the sky—no broomstick could fly through here.
Once he reached the depths, he'd be safe.
He could almost picture that British wizard fuming helplessly at the cave mouth.
Yet a chill crept up his spine.
He guided one bat to look back, almost against his will.
And then he saw it.
Moonlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the forest floor.
High above, gliding unhurriedly, was a white shadow.
Not a broom, not a carpet, not any magical artifact he knew.
A crane.
An elegant, unhurried crane, radiating a cold, lethal pressure.
It soared above the treetops, the canopy no obstacle at all.
Its eyes—two glints of icy starlight—locked unerringly onto the path of the fleeing bats.
Valerius felt his blood freeze.
Animagus!
That man was an unregistered Animagus!
Panic seized him. He scattered the bats further, desperate to escape that gaze—so cold, so precise, like a surgeon's scalpel.
On a hidden outpost halfway up the mountain, two monks in black habits, silver cross-and-sword crests gleaming on their chests, stood watchful.
They were Vatican sentries, posted here for just such strange events.
"Andre, did you hear that? What was that sound just now?" the younger monk asked nervously.
"Quiet, Mario. Probably just an owl," the older monk, Andre, snapped, though his own eyes were fixed on the sky.
Suddenly, Mario gasped, pointing with a trembling finger.
"God… what… what is that?"
Andre followed his gaze.
Beneath the cold moon, a gigantic, snow-white bird glided with regal wings outspread.
Its feathers shimmered with a gentle halo in the moonlight, its form sacred and noble.
It was chasing a swarm of black, evil bats—the scene like a mural of angels casting out demons.
"It's… it's an angel…" Mario whispered, tears in his eyes as he crossed himself.
"The Lord's messenger, come to purify this tainted land!"
Even Andre was transfixed.
He rubbed his eyes, certain he wasn't dreaming.
The white crane radiated an aura of purity and peace, an inviolable majesty.
He had never seen a creature so holy.
Could this be a miracle?
In the forest, every creature sensed the presence.
A fox, pausing in its hunt, looked up, golden eyes reflecting the crane's silhouette. With a whimper, it tucked its tail and vanished into the underbrush.
A flock of night birds fluttered their wings in unease, but dared not make a sound.
Even the twisted, magic-tainted beasts lurking in the deepest shadows stilled their rage, lying low.
The entire Apennine range seemed to fall under a hush, as if the crane had pressed a mute button on the world.
Only the bats—Valerius's fragments—still fled in wild, futile panic.
High above, Douglas's mind fused seamlessly with the crane's instincts.
He could feel the forest breathing below, hear every leaf that fell.
He could smell Valerius's unique scent—earth, rot, and a faint trace of aristocratic cologne.
He was in no hurry.
He was savoring the hunt.
Like a seasoned shepherd, patiently guiding a lost lamb back to the pen he had prepared—
The feeding pen.
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